


Don’t stop;  I haven’t had enough

by Rena



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Lapdance, M/M, stripper!derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can touch, you know,” he says, runs his hand over Stiles’ torso, making his breath catch when his fingers graze Stiles' heated skin where his shirt rode up.</p><p> “I’m pretty sure that’s against the company policy,” Stiles pants out, but his hands are already moving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t stop;  I haven’t had enough

One day, preferably in the near future, Stiles is going to sit himself down and think long and hard about what it says about him that he just lets the women of his life march into his home like it’s no big deal, shove clothes that are way too tight into his arms, order him to change and drag him out to God knows where without him even thinking about protesting until it’s too late.

“Um,” he says when he’s in the car, headed somewhere downtown, trying to ignore all the traffic laws Erica remorselessly violates. “Where are we going again?”

“You’ll see,” Lydia says curtly, flicking a tiny piece of lint off her skirt.

“It’s a surprise,” Allison adds sweetly. “I promise you’ll like it.”

“Okay, different questions: _why_ are you taking me out?”

“It’s girls’ night,” Erica answers like that makes perfect sense, when it, in fact, _makes absolutely no fucking sense at all_.

Stiles is well aware that it’s girls’ night. The three of them have established a monthly girls’ night ages ago, and have been very adamant about not letting any of the guys near them the entire day, not even boyfriends. So unless Stiles has suddenly turned into a girl without his knowledge – which he hasn’t, he’s checked, all the parts are still exactly where they should be – he has no reason to be near them.

“Yeah,” he begins, “about that...”

“Yes, Stilinski, we’re aware you don’t have a vagina,” Lydia snaps. She’s taken to using his last name when she’s annoyed with him, which doesn’t happen quite as often as it used to, but often enough. Stiles would be offended if he wasn’t busy being impressed by her somewhat terrifying mind-reading skills. Sometimes she knows what’s going on in his head better than Scott does. He’s still not entire sure she’s not a psychic.

They park in a dark, narrow alley he doesn’t recognise, but then again, all back streets in Beacon Hills look the same to him. They all kind of blend together when you spend the majority of your nights running through them, either chasing monsters or trying not to trip over your own feet as they chase you lest you die a horrible and painful death. “Are you gonna tell me where we are now?”

“Patience is a virtue, Stiles.”

“I was absent the day God distributed that particular quality,” Stiles says.

“We’re aware.” Erica grins, grabs him by the scruff of his neck and hauls him forward. “Come on.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t always resort to physical force,” Stiles complains inanely. By now, it’s more of a habitual complaint than an actual issue; he’s gotten used to Erica pushing him around. It’s mostly for show on her side as well. “You’re intimidating enough as it is. Why can’t you just ask nicely?”

“Because you respond better to pressure.” She shrugs. “Stop whining, we’re doing you a favour.”

“Does it involve being stabbed to death in a back alley, because – whoa,” he stops abruptly upon rounding the corner. Allison nearly barrels into him. “What?”

“We’re not letting you be stabbed to death, Stiles, don’t be ridiculous,” Lydia dismisses. 

“Although,” Erica smirks, “there might be _some_ stabbing –“

“Erica,” Allison chides. “Be nice. You’re freaking him out.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles insists once he’s regained his balance and ability to form sentences. “Care to explain why exactly we’re standing in front of Beacon Hills’ classiest strip club?”

“So you do know it. Good for you,” Lydia says, patting his shoulder condescendingly.

“Yes, Lydia, I’ve heard of it. This town doesn’t have that many options and I’m a regular teenage boy with a healthy sex drive, not Jon Snow. Of course I googled it at some point, but, obviously, I’ve never been.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky that you turned eighteen a few weeks ago and are now actually allowed to enter,” Allison says. “And that we still need to give you our birthday present.”

Stiles’ mind is reeling. “You’re taking me to a strip club,” he says. Maybe repeating it will make the entire situation less surreal.

“You’re in desperate need to get some,” Lydia says. “And while we cannot make sure you will get laid here – they have a ‘just watch, don’t touch’ policy – at least we’ll all get to enjoy some eye-candy.”

“I’m onto you,” Stiles says as they pass the bouncer, who just nods at them without even asking them for any ID, _how much did Lydia pay them for this?_ “You’re not doing this for me; you’re doing this for your own benefit. I’m just the cover story so that your boyfriends don’t freak out.”

“No one said you can’t combine business with pleasure,” Erica says offhandedly. “Now get a move on. It’s girls’ night here, too, and I don’t want to miss a single hot, scarcely clad guy dancing.”

Now this is a notion Stiles can get behind.

**∞**

Stiles has never been inside a strip club before, as is normal for someone who’s barely legal. All he knows about strip clubs comes from watching Magic Mike.

The movie has _lied_ to him.

It’s actually _better._

He may not be allowed to drink, but he, Erica, Allison and Lydia are having the time of their lives. The music is awesome and the strippers – well, he runs around with super hot werewolves all day long, so it’s not like he’s not used to seeing people who are too beautiful to be real, and maybe the dancers don’t quite reach Derek’s level of physical perfection, but they have that whole almost-entirely-naked thing going for them and that is definitely speaking in their favour.

Stiles is also really glad no one has come out wearing a police outfit yet, because that would be too mentally scarring for him to enjoy it.

He’s been half hard ever since he entered, which is almost painful and a little frustrating. It reminds him of how much he wants to touch someone, of how much he wants someone to touch _him_ , and, most importantly, it reminds him of how dreadfully single and virginal he is. The girls can get all hyped up and then have their brains fucked out by their boyfriends and he’ll be left to deal with the images with his dick’s best friend, aka his right hand.

Stiles misses the host announcing the next dancer contemplating whether or not he’d get away with sneaking into the men’s room for a few minutes to take care of his problem (probably not), but his attention snaps back to the stage when the music starts, the hard ruffs of Led Zeppelin’s _Whole Lotta Love_ drowning out the sound of the screaming men and women. Artificial fog is clouding up the stage, so that he can hardly make out the tall, broad silhouette of the stripper.

Stiles expects a lot of leather, which....hnnnng. Yes, please.

Except then the stripper steps forwards with long but measured steps, deadly elegance in every movement, and Stiles freezes because _he knows that man._

“Oh my God,” he squeaks and flails so hard he nearly falls out of his chair, which altogether isn’t that bad, because he needs to get out of here right fucking now and being out of the chair is a good start for that.

And he’d totally bail, but Erica’s hand is suddenly there, a tight grip on his wrist and she yanks him back until he topples back onto the seat. He’s pretty sure he’ll have bruises there tomorrow. “Ow,” he hisses, and she still doesn’t let go, “Erica, what the fuck?”

“Don’t even think about it. We’re not done here,” she says, not even looking at him. Her eyes are transfixed on the dancer, because she knows Stiles is no match for her, and she smirks knowingly.

“Erica, holy shit, that’s _Derek_ , how can you –“ Stiles bites his own tongue. Derek’s gaze zeroes in on him and he stares at Stiles for a fracture of a second, and then he looks away. But yeah, he’s seen them. Stiles wishes desperately the ground would just open up below him and swallow him whole.

“Sit,” Erica says. “Stay.”

“I’m not a fucking dog,” Stiles bitches, but he stays even when she finally loosens her death grip. Who is he even kidding – he was trying to be the bigger man when he attempted to make a break for it, but he’s not necessarily a good, moral person. And he’s been dying to see Derek like this for a long, long time. So of course he stays.

He doesn’t regret it one bit. He may be biased, but it’s definitely the best show of the night.

The combination of black leather, classic rock and Derek with his....Derekness is kind of a perfect torture. Stiles had known Derek could, like, move, had perfect control of his body, he has seen Derek exert his strength and agility in various context, but never, not once, like this. He hadn’t known Derek could actually dance. But  he can.

Every single one of his movements is sinful and sinuous, controlled yet fluid, and Stiles watches in fascination how Derek’s muscles ripple under his sin. It’s like he can see the amount of strength hidden beneath it, simmering just beneath the skin, like a coiled spring, a cat before jumping at her prey. He doesn’t know where to look: at Derek’s insane abs, his slow, circling hips, his arms or his ass or maybe even his face, the little satisfied smirk tugging at Derek’s lips.

Derek doesn’t look at Stiles again as he moves around the stage, not once throughout the entire show. Stiles doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or happy. He should probably go with the latter, because it saves them a lot of embarrassment, and truth be told, he’d probably cream his pants the second Derek’s eyes landed on him again. Absentmindedly, he notices that Derek doesn’t pull any of the ladies onto the stage, unlike his colleagues, who’d all either given someone a lap dance or fake-fucked them on stage. It’s another thing he’s grateful for, because he’s not sure he would’ve survived that view.

It’s over before Stiles can really comprehend what’s happening, and Derek leaves under thundering applause and a lot of people throwing a fucking lot of money onto the stage, only wearing boxer briefs so tight they leave absolutely nothing to imagination.

Stiles lets out a strangled sound. “I hate you so much,” he says. Of course they’d planned this; none of the girls had seemed surprised upon seeing Derek on stage, and of course they know about his hopeless crush on Derek, which up until now he thought had been a well-kept secret and – fuck. There is no way Derek doesn’t know about the raging hard-on Stiles is sporting thanks to his performance, what with his freakish super senses and all that. He’s going to murder Stiles. “I hate you. Please excuse me while I go kill myself.”

“Don’t be a drama queen,” Lydia sighs. “It was worth it, wasn’t it?”

Was the show worth his life? Yeah, probably, and Stiles hadn’t even gotten to touch, dammit. He really needs to get to the bathroom, though. At least that’s his plan when a hand comes down on his shoulder and a man in a suit is looking down to him with a polite but slightly creepy smile on his face.

“Mister Stilinski?”

“Yes?”

“If you would follow me, please.”

Oh God, he’s going to die and they’ll never find his body. “I-“ he begins, but then he sees Allison’s encouraging smile, Lydia’s wink and Erica’s downright self-satisfied grin and figures it’s going to be okay. Probably.

**∞**

Stiles expects a lot of things when he’s being led into a fancy, decorated room in the back of the establishment. Like for example a knife in the back, or a stern lecture on proper behaviour (although he’s not entirely sure what he did wrong), or just another of Lydia’s surprises. He’s not prepared, however, for Derek to be waiting for him, leaning casually against the far wall, now wearing tight jeans and a deep-cut V-neck that shows off the skin between his collarbones, still glistening with sweat.

The first thing that comes out of his mouth is something akin to what he imagines a verbal keyboard smash must sound like. It’s not his proudest moment. Then again, he’s embarrassed himself in front of Derek too many times to count, so at this point he’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t expect him to behave like a normal human being, like, ever.

He manages to untangle his tongue, and his second attempt at speaking is much more successful. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I swear, I didn’t know, I-“

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts him calmly. “I know. Stop freaking out.”

“Not sure if I can. I’m the kind of epic inner freak-outs, and when they actually come to the surface it’s a bit like a train wreck.”

Derek just looks amused. “I’m aware of that, too. Sit down, Stiles.”

Stiles frowns. “Are we going to have a talk about not telling the others about this? Are you gonna threaten me with your teeth again?”

Behind him, the dude in the suits snorts. Stiles had completely forgotten he was still there. “This one is a handful,” he says. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“It’s fine, thanks, George,” Derek says, politely but dismissively, and the dude gets the message and slinks out of the room, closing the door with a wink and a leering “Have fun.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Uh,” Stiles says, because his brain is spluttering again now that he realises he’s alone. In a secluded room. With Derek, who is hotter than sex on legs on any given day. And a really persistent boner that won’t go away no matter how many times he thinks of Coach Finstock and his grandmother. Together. On a horse. Son of a bitch. “What?”

“Sit,” Derek orders, and turns around to flip a switch on the stereo behind him.

Stiles sits down. Not because Derek told him to – he’s a fucking pro when it comes to ignoring orders – but because he thinks his legs might give out, and he doesn’t want to end up with his face getting acquainted with the hardwood floor. “Oh my God,” he breathes shakily, because he knows exactly where this is going.

What he doesn’t know is whether to kill Lydia or kiss her.

Stiles swallows. “Dude,” he says, voice raspy. “You don’t have to. Like, if this makes you uncomfortable, I know Lydia paid for this but –“

Derek raises his eyebrows, looking totally relaxed, like he’s not about to give Stiles a freaking private lap dance. “Does it make _you_ uncomfortable?” he asks.

Stiles actually laughs at that, and Derek seems to think it’s a good enough answer. “Then for once, just shut your mouth and don’t do anything.”

Stiles shuts his mouth, and doesn’t do anything except wriggle around in his seat until he finds a more comfortable position that doesn’t leave his dick straining painfully against the criminally tight jeans the girls forced him into. Derek is watching him intently, waiting until he stops moving, and then he starts walking towards him, all lithe and sinuous movements.

He’s never looked more like a predator, and Stiles has never felt more like prey and been one hundred percent okay with the prospect of being eaten alive.

There’s a small but persistent voice in the back of his head that tells him this is still a bad idea, no matter how professional Derek may act about it. No matter how much experience he has ignoring Stiles’ pathetic constant boner for him. Because after today, something will have happened, and that tends to be much, much harder to ignore. They’ll have to talk about this eventually, and it will inevitable make things awkward. They’ve only become truly comfortable with each other like a year ago, and have slowly but surely worked their way up to friendship, and as horny as Stiles is, he doesn’t want anything to ruin it. If he can’t be with Derek, he at least wants to still be his friend.

Stiles clears his throat against the lump forming in it. “You could, uh, pretend I’m someone else.”

Derek halts for a moment, then takes the last step and leans forward, bracketing Stiles with his arms, brings his mouth to Stiles’ ear. “Are you going to pretend I’m someone else?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Stiles says. Derek would know if he was lying anyway.

“Good,” Derek murmurs, drags his lips along Stiles’ jawline before pulling back a little so he can look him in the eyes. “I don’t want you to.”

If that didn’t effectively punch every breath out of his lungs, Derek settling comfortably on his lap, _extremely close to his_ crotch, and taking his shirt off with a single, graceful movement definitely does. Another few brain cells short circuit, and he’s pretty sure he will not survive this. Then Derek begins to roll his hips, and Stiles cannot keep the choked-off moan from escaping past his lips. He curls his hands around the armrests, clenches them until his knuckles turn white just to keep his hands from developing a mind of their own.

Derek on the other hand seems determined to make him lose control. “You can touch, you know,” he says, runs his hand over Stiles’ torso, makes his breath catch when his fingers graze his heated skin where his shirt rode up.

“I’m pretty sure that’s against the company policy,” Stiles pants out, but his hands are already moving to Derek’s waist, gliding up to his abs, rubbing circles into his skin. “Dude, your abs are so fucking ridiculous. Everything about you is so fucking ridiculous, your arms and your eyes and your jawline and your ridiculously perfect ass in your ridiculously tight jeans...”

He can’t keep himself from bucking up, desperate for more friction, and Derek hisses. “Look who’s talking,” he retorts with a snort, but his pupils are dilated and he’s actually breathing more heavily, and then he’s grinding down, and _holy shit_ , he wants Stiles.

“Oh God,” he breathes. “They are actually brilliant. Evil but brilliant.”

“Please stop talking about our friends when we’re about to have sex,” Derek grinds out.

“Sorry. Just, you know, overactive brain.”

“Do you ever stop thinking?” Derek asks, sneaking his hands under Stiles’ shirt again and rucking it up insistently, and Stiles luckily still has the mind to lift his arms so he can pull it over his hand.

“Don’t know,” he says. “You could try and make me.”

Derek lifts one eyebrow. Stiles probably shouldn’t find that as sexy as he does. “Is that a challenge?”

Stiles grins. “Give me your worst,” he says. “In fact-“ and then Derek lurches forward and cuts him off pretty effectively with his mouth and his tongue and whatever innuendo Stiles wanted to make dies a quick and memorial-less death, because after that everything he can perceive are Derek’s hands running over his skin, the heat and wetness of his mouth, the quiet little moans that escape either of them, both of them, he doesn’t even know, because mostly he keeps getting distracted by the friction between their joined hips.

They might make out for minutes or for hours, Stiles doesn’t know; it only registers that the music has stopped playing when Derek pulls back. Stiles immediately keens, missing his mouth and touch. He was _so close_ to coming, this is just _cruel_. “No, no, no, what are you doing, why did you stop?” he whines, yanking at Derek’s arms in vain.

Derek slaps his hands away. “Stiles, I’m not coming in my pants like a horny thirteen year old.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

Derek smirks and makes quick work of both their buttons and zippers, and Stiles doesn’t even get a moment to appreciate that he gets to see Derek’s dick before Derek’s already wrapping a hand around both of them, stroking up and down, slow and tight and perfect. Stiles loses all cognitive functions beyond moaning Derek’s name at that point, and really, all he can do is drop his forehead to Derek’s shoulder and dig his fingers into his back and watch, enraptured, the warm-slick slide of their cocks against each other.

It doesn’t take long until he feels the heat pooling in his stomach, the tell-tale tightening of his abdominal muscles that tells him that an orgasm is imminent. A few more strokes and Stiles is spilling messily over them both and Derek’s hand. He thinks a bit lands on his jeans, too, but he is far beyond caring, just bites his lip to keep the sounds in. He doesn’t particularly want anyone outside being alerted to what’s happening inside and maybe walking in on them.

In his post-orgasm haze, he forgets all about his initial apprehension and just goes for it, wraps his hand around Derek’s, and then it’s just another couple of lazy pulls until Derek comes with a bitten out “Fuck, Stiles,” and a full body shudder that makes Stiles feel weirdly proud of himself.

“So,” Stiles says into the quietness that follows, when they’ve both come down from their high but are still unwilling to move. “Your dick touching my dick. That’s, uh, something we should do again, don’t you think?”

“Just for that phrasing I’m gonna use your shirt to clean up the mess,” Derek grunts, rolling his eyes affectionately before pulling him into another kiss.

Stiles takes that as a resounding yes.  

**Author's Note:**

> For Chris (youneedmetosurvive), who asked: Stiles's dragged to a strip club by Lydia & Allison and it turns out one of the strippers is Derek. Stiles wants to get away when he sees him 'cause awkward but is stopped by Lydia & Allison. Though throughout the show Derek ignores Stiles who's flushed and stuff 'cause boy can Derek move (also hot body). After, Stiles wants to escape as soon as possible yet he's stopped again by Lydia who paid for a private dance for him. So he's in a room alone with Derek and unprofessional things happen there.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm also on tumblr [here](http://simplystiles.tumblr.com)


End file.
